


Maelstrom

by wonder_boy



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Confusion, Gen, Hallucinations, Hints of Non-Consensual Drug Use, Hints of Non-Graphic Violence, Hospitalization, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Psychological Torture, Whump, Whumptober, drugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonder_boy/pseuds/wonder_boy
Summary: He awakens when they tell him to. He sleeps when they tell him to. He swallows every last drop that they feed him, because he gets in trouble if he doesn’t.-For Whumptober Day 22: Drugged
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 19
Kudos: 85





	Maelstrom

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited for this one!! I hope you like it as much as I do - enjoy!

It’s warm.

Malcolm takes a step toward the ocean and sinks his toes under the warm sand, wiggling them until the mound of sand falls between the cracks and the sun covers his toes instead.

With the shake of the tide, the sea shoves forward in his direction, and he welcomes the ripples of waves crashing over his feet up to his shins.

The rocks under him are comforting, the white sea foam coats his legs with such fluffiness and gentleness, and the weeds flutter under his toes with the softest touch.

Oh, how he longs to walk on the beach again.

Sand turns to dust, crushed and mashed at the bottom of a plastic cup and drizzled over today’s lunch until the chalky white color dissipates into the meal.

The waves brushing over his feet and through his toes are no longer warm and expansive, but cold and compact, confined to a shallow tub with abysmal water pressure that takes forever to fill up halfway.

Sea foam turns into soapy, itchy sponges that brush and scrub against his skin with unforgiving strength, leaving streaks of red, irritated patches behind it.

Rocks between his toes and under his heels turn into calloused hands that scrape his skin with a washcloth coated in seafoam that smells like a dirty river.

The cloth dips between his legs, but he can’t feel it. Only the breeze of the ocean, the heat from the sun, and the waves soaking his body as it crashes over his lower half.

Oh, how he longs to walk on the beach again.

It’s time for his new medication, and the sea begins to harden.

He doesn’t like them because of the way they make him feel. He can’t remember the last time he took his old prescriptions – the ones that make him happy, weightless, on top of the world.

The ones they deemed were affecting his “behavior”.

Weeds turn into metal chains that lock him to concrete.

The sea turns into a foggy haze that keeps him quiet and still, incapable of making any sudden movements.

He can’t feel his tongue. It lays like an anchor in his mouth, preventing him from speaking, from spilling, from telling the truth.

He didn’t kill Eddie.

This is a mistake.

He was framed.

No one believes him. No one believes that the son of a serial killer didn’t murder an innocent man. No one believes that the man who hallucinates is telling the truth.

They believed his sister, though. She doesn’t have to go through what he’s being subjected to. It teeters on the edge of torture, but they call it necessary. He’s happy. She doesn’t have to be here. She’s getting help.

Broken homes and silent walls. His mother grieves. Her children were taken away. Disfigured by the man who once claimed to love her, and disturbed by the man who could give her the world if she asked for it.

The police who arrested him are gone – their faces blurry and unrecognizable in his memory now. He remembers curls and a tall, bulky silhouette in a long coat, but no names.

Sometimes, in his induced dreams, a man with very sad eyes comes to visit him. Eyes that have seen the worst in life, beaten down and weary, but choose to light up every time he sees Malcolm.

He never speaks, but for some odd reason, it feels better that he doesn’t. That there’s no need to.

On the rarest of occasions, the chrips of a bird filter in and out like a calling, a distant plea that’s only unique to him. _For_ him.

Then again, he knows that in his limited consciousness, there are no birds where the white walls hang, and there are no men who look at him with sad eyes.

Only disgust.

Fear.

Pity.

He awakens when they tell him to. He sleeps when they tell him to. He swallows every last drop that they feed him, because he gets in trouble if he doesn’t.

Time passes on an endless, suffering loop. He stopped counting the days when he couldn’t walk straight or eat without assistance.

Drifts in and out all day.

Muddled voices feel like static to his ears.

No longer human; just a corpse floating down white halls that are always too bright, carried by men whose grasp is always too tight.

They don’t treat his father like this.

His father gets the red carpet treatment when he’s around. Bossing the guards around, chatting with the staff about his release from gen pop, taking all his time in therapy to tell the other inmates stories of his courageous takeover of an entire cell block.

Meanwhile, Malcolm struggles to hold his head up.

They think he’s a monster, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. One body can become two, then four overnight. That’s why they keep him like this.

Quiet.

Tired.

Numb.

Unresponsive. They think he’s being insubordinate when he fails to comply, but they fail to realize that it’s impossible. There’s too much in his system for him to be cooperative no matter how hard he tries to break through the medicated veil they have him under.

Some days when a different staff rotation filters in, he’s able to breathe a bit better.

There is a lady.

A lady with short black hair comes to check on him to make sure he’s awake to start his day, and she always waits for him to finish in the bathroom before he’s whisked away to the common room. Sometimes, she’ll take a second to fix his bed hair so that way he looks presentable. He appreciates it.

He never talks in therapy. She reminds him that he doesn’t have to, but it’s encouraged that he does.

His father thinks she likes him. Malcolm doesn’t think so.

Normally when she’s around, she helps him with his food. Sometimes when he’s too weak to hold the spoon, hand shaking with the vigor of an earthquake, so she makes sure that he swallows his medication without trouble and eats enough until he gives the signal that he’s full.

He doesn’t make eye contact anymore. His eyes are glossed over, trapped in an unfocused haze drifting from the ground to the walls, away from the faces that try to get his attention.

Psychiatrists complain that they can’t move forward in his treatment if he’s strung out on too many sedatives to count.

Claremont argues that they need to do everything they can to control a man with such violent tendencies, saying it’s too risky to let him roam free.

They have their reasons.

One awful morning, Malcolm awoke drenched in sweat with a splitting headache that throbbed behind his eyes. His stomach twisted in nauseating knots until he helplessly squirmed around in his restraints, not strong enough to unclip himself and make it to the bathroom.

In desperate need to get himself free, he fumbles with the latch for quite some time until he finally unclips himself. The victory is short lived, because the second he’s free, he springs up from his bed with a burst of energy and yanks open the door to the small bathroom and falls to his knees in front of the toilet.

He’s sick. It’s obvious.

Perhaps, it’s for the better. Because when his stomach is empty and bile leaves a burn in his throat, the dry heaves come, but he welcomes the pain. He feels more alive than he’s ever been.

Eventually, his stomach gives him a break.

Sweaty and gross, Malcolm is spent, and his legs feel like jelly under his thighs as he rests his forehead on his arm gripping the seat.

The click of the door startles him to attention but not enough to get him to move to his feet.

“Mr. Bright!”

The sound of his name makes his head spin.

“Why are you out of your restraints?” the voice barks. A guard, one that probably doesn’t like him that much so it seems.

His tone’s harsh. His feet stomp as they get closer.

Malcolm isn’t strong enough to move himself off of the floor and in his foggy haze, he’s scared that the decision is going to be made for him.

Rough hands hoist him up to the side so he’s sitting up in front of the toilet, the quick movement making his weak stomach lurch and brings his hand up to cover his mouth with a muffled groan.

“Out of your restraints and incompetence? Continue to resist and they’ll have you thrown in the hole where you belong.”

That frightens him. Solitary confinement. His own private hellscape – he’s been in there a couple of times, voice raw from screaming in the void where no one can hear him.

It’s the closest he’s come to losing to his mind.

_No – can’t go back._

“’m sorry,” he sluggishly mumbles, face contorted in agony. “’m sick.”

Everything hurts. When he takes a moment to peer through the fog and really get a sense of where he is, he notices the unbearable, nagging aches in his body. No matter how he twists around, or how he sits, his body flares up in an instant and leaves a searing pain behind it.

All he wants right now is to be held by warm, forgiving hands in a sea of muted greys and tender touches.

He wants his mother.

It doesn’t feel right to think that, but it circles his mind anyway.

“We’ll send you to the infirmary, but don’t expect any special treatment,” the guard grumbles, hooking his arms under Malcolm’s. “Maybe this will serve as a reality check, hmm? Might bring you back to your senses?”

Stomach rolling like the waves of an ocean, a looming tide he doesn’t want to get swept under.

“Fevers really clear you out.”

The sea crashes over his toes and into the sand again.

It’s hot under the sun. Too hot. A breeze sends a shiver down his spine, but it’s still too hot.

“You listening, Mr. Bright?”

Then the smoldering hot summer day flashes into a chilly desert night.

“Hello?”

* * *

Stationary. Unmoving, the waves settle under the moonlight. A slight rock that’s quiet enough to lull a baby back to sleep. He welcomes the soothing lullaby.

Then he comes to.

He’s lost days again. Not sure how many, but it feels substantial, like he’s missed out on something.

No more aches and pains, cold sweats, or persistent nausea – just the cold floor between rustic walls and the small window of light that mocks him.

Solitary.

No chains, but still bound. Shadows crawl where he can’t see them, bringing the screeches of his father with them that blaze past his ears like a sharp whistle. He quickly covers his ears to shield himself from the banshees of the night.

They won’t let him sleep.

A warm hand gently rests over the back of his neck, calloused but strangely comforting. He initially shivers at the touch until it grabs him and holds him there until he finally stops shaking. It feels familiar, then it doesn’t. A dark coat brightens to grey.

“My boy.”

Time dilutes to nothing. It’s pointless – days only measured by the rise and fall of the sun.

He wants to go home. Wherever that may be. Streams of gold and old portraits cross his mind through the trees of a crowded park, between work desks flowing through navy silhouettes and broad bladed axes that shine next to the cage of the sun.

He’s not sure how long he’s been in solitary, but it’s safe to say his mind is frayed at the edges.

One morning – or, so he believes – he was given a stern warning for not swallowing his first batch of pills when they came in. Defiance, they called it.

The second time he ignored the small metal tray with a plastic cup with colorful contents inside, an alarm sounded.

When he awoke again, his body was in pieces, and his throat was so dry and scarred that he couldn’t swallow his own spit.

The lady with black hair comes to see him sometimes, but he’s never quite certain if she’s real. If she’s _ever_ been real.

He’s not sure how long he’s been in solitary, but it’s safe to say that he’s breaking down faster than everyone’s expectations.

So, the needles keep coming.

The metal sound of a latch breaking and the creaking of the door filters through the moaning of voices that have been gnawing at his soul ever since he landed himself in time out. The light blinds him until a tall figure blocks out most of it.

Light shining behind a figure he can’t make out like a man who can walk on water.

He picks his head up from the crook of his arm and squints from under the steel bed frame where he lays curled up in a ball. Gates. Maybe this is the end.

“You have a visitor.”

* * *

Floats through the halls. Shoreline nowhere in sight.

He’s not supposed to have visitors. He’s in trouble.

His tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. Ankles weighed down by anchors he can’t see. Wrists bound with metal, fingers intertwined along dry, cracked skin. Everything blurs in front of him.

He feels so heavy today.

Numb.

Tired.

Quiet.

He’s taken by some guards into a small holding cell, decorated with rusty, faded walls of yellows and reds with a metal table that seats two metal chairs. They sit him down with force even though he’s practically jello at this point.

His hands are forced from his lap and onto the table as they chain him to the table like he’s capable of any sudden movement. The cuffs dig into his wrist and carve into his skin into the dent they’ve made over time.

The guards are gone, and he’s all alone now.

It’s quiet. Peaceful. He’s grateful for the stillness of the waters.

His head lulls to the side far enough for him to snap awake and catch himself before he leans a bit too far over the edge. He blinks and waits. His mind is so chaotic and in such disarray that he can’t even conjure an idea of who wants to see him like this.

Maybe the guards will play a cruel joke and send his father in. In the pit of his stomach, he counts on it.

An alarm sounds before the latch on the door audibly clicks, unlocks, and Malcolm’s head follows the sound of footsteps echoing closer to and closer towards the center of the room. He blinks and waits for a figure to appear.

He blinks again – he’s too dizzy to focus on multiple things at a time. The figure stalls in the middle of the room, presumably taking in the breathtaking sight that is dressed in white with a badge number and not a name.

Then the figure walks closer to the table. The scrape of the metal chair against the floor grates his ears, but it doesn’t faze him all that much. This is the most time he’s had outside of that place.

Ever so slowly, his eyes adjust to the person sitting across from him, slowly bringing them into focus.

He _sees_ him.

The man with the sad eyes.

“Hey, kid.”

At first, he doesn’t know how to respond. He blinks as the sentiment washes over him in ripples until suddenly, the pieces start to come together in one giant, coherent mess. He hasn’t felt this kind of clarity in ages.

The best he manages is a soft groan. His tongue feels too heavy to lift, and he’s too tired to speak and voice what’s going on in his head. He knows this man, and this man clearly knows _him_.

If his mother ever decides to come see him, he makes a plan to tell her the man with the sad eyes came to visit him in his isolation.

“Kid?” the man calls again, eyebrows raising ever so slightly. It’s not his name, but he doesn’t hate the replacement. It’s warm, familiar, oddly comforting.

Silently, Malcolm notes every feature on his face like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. The wrinkles show his age but he seems as lively and attentive as ever. He’s dressed nicely as one should when it’s very cold out, a matching scarf and coat, with leather gloves that rest on the table in front of him.

He realizes that he’s probably scaring the man. Slowly blinking himself out of his haze, Malcolm swallows the spit in his mouth.

“Hi.”

Light shines through the man’s features, happy, maybe a bit excited, but he still looks sad as he stares at the frail body sitting across from him.

“Hi,” the man says back, albeit a bit awkward.

“I see you in my dreams,” Malcolm blurts out, his words slurring a bit. “I didn’t know if you were real or not.”

That hits him like a ton of bricks.

He knows that Malcolm is prone to severe hallucinations even under the most toxic of sedatives, but this isn’t happening. It shouldn’t be. Even through the worst of his night terrors, Malcolm always came back to him no matter how deep he fell in.

Now he doesn’t even know if he’s real.

“Malcolm,” he breathes, and his eyes become misty. “What did they _do_ to you?”

Like an anchor, it sinks in.

The answer he’s been dreading ever since they took Malcolm away from him. Ever since his team was responsible for charging him for a murder he didn’t commit. For charging him with being an accomplice to another. Premeditation. Words he’s had to say on record that he can’t take back.

The man looks at Malcolm, _really_ looks, for any sign of recognition or understanding of the person sitting only inches away from him.

He hesitates because he doesn’t want to know the answer. But, he needs to find out for himself. He can’t sleep without knowing.

A frown creases his face, then it smooths to something more sorrowful. His hands come up from his lap and gently brush over Malcolm’s.

“Do you know who I am?”

Malcolm blinks, and the man's heart breaks.

“Keeps your hands away from the inmate,” warns the guard in the room.

He hesitantly nods and reluctantly backs away from Malcolm. “Right. Sorry.”

Placing his hands back in his lap, he turns back to the frail figure sitting across from him.

“What did they do...” he trails off, shock settling in his system like a heavy weight’s been placed on his chest. It leaves him breathless, speechless. At a loss of what to say or do.

Right now, he’s staring at the shell of a person he used to know – the boy he _raised_ as his own. How can he go back to the precinct knowing that he’s the cause of all of this?

He breaks.

“It’s all my fault.” The words fall from his lips like a broken confession. Tears well up in his eyes while frustration claws at him and makes him nauseous. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have – I never should’ve–” The words become lodged in his throat, stuck with nowhere to go.

Malcolm is like this because of him.

Because he couldn’t fight the system that he put him in.

“Oh god,” he mumbles to himself, and his palms come up to his eyes. Overcome with sorrow. Regret. Suffocating guilt.

It’s all his fault. He can only _imagine_ what they’re doing to him behind closed doors. Malcolm will never be the same because it’s all his fault. Not the boy he raised. Not the man he’s grown to nurture.

“Please don’t cry,” Malcolm frets, suddenly feeling guilty. The man’s crying because of him, but he’s not sure why. “It will be okay.”

The man fervently shakes his head as his palms dig into his eyes to wipes away the onslaught of tears. “No it’s not,” he chokes out. “Not if you stay here.”

Malcolm searches his face, worried that he made him upset, trying to figure out what he said that caused him to cry. It feels like he always leaves a mess wherever he goes.

Then his sad eyes meet his own.

“I have to go,” the man suddenly announces. His feet move before his heart gets a chance to dwell in the pain any longer. “I have to fix this.”

Malcolm starts to panic. He’s going to leave. He’s going to be alone again.

“Wait–!”

The man halts everything and turns to face him swiftly on his heels, hurt etched on his face.

Seeing the man stop at this request, Malcolm ducks his head a bit. “Please don’t go.”

Already weighed down by the guilt consuming him, the man stays put. He doesn’t have it in him to turn his back on Malcolm again.

Malcolm chews on his bottom lip as he debates telling the man what’s on his mind. He needs an answer, a fragment, something to hold on to when they drag him back to the darkness he came out of.

He has to know.

“What is your name?” He squints as he tries to piece broken fragments together in his mind. They’re jumbled and messy like memories that aren’t his own, lost in the bottom of a plastic cup. “I know you, I just...can’t remember how.”

The man’s heart shatters into a million pieces.

With a sad smile, he drops his head to his chest, pauses, then forces himself to look Malcolm in the eyes.

“Gil. Gil Arroyo.”

Then the room falls silent.

“Gil,” Malcolm repeats. “Gil.” He tries the name out a few times out loud to get a feel for it, repeating it over and over until it sounds right. Then he whips his head back at Gil, and says his name with more confidence. “Gil.” A small smile finds its way on his face. “It’s a nice name.”

Warm, soothing, there’s something nostalgic about the sound of his name. Maybe this is the home he sees in his dreams – the one he’s been searching for.

For Gil, it’s another punch to the gut.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” The anger has returned to his face, but Malcolm doesn’t think it’s towards him. “You can’t stay here – you don’t _belong_ here.” A hand runs through his hair and tugs on the scalp, containing the guilt simmering through his body.

“Where will I go?” he asks, blue eyes big and lost.

Gil puts his foot down. “Home. Home with me.” He can’t fathom leaving Malcolm alone ever again. “I’m going to get this all sorted out, and you’re coming home with me, first thing.”

The sudden assertion has Malcolm taken aback.

He has a home.

A place to go back to. Someone besides his mother who wants him in their space.

 _Why is he so nice?_ he wonders. _Father is never this nice to me_.

“Will I see you again?”

Gil takes another long look at him, tattooing the image to memory so it sticks, so it hurts every second he’s not with him, not safe at home. “Yes,” he reassures. “As many times as I possibly can.”

Then the door buzzes. “Time’s up.”

“I’ll come back for you, kid,” Gil rushes out as guards approach him. “Wait for me.”

Malcolm manages a slow nod before Gil is escorted out. Gone.

Helplessly, Malcolm watches him walk out of the room. The sound of the door buzzing behind him and the rough hands of the guards don’t startle him as he’s uncuffed from the table and brought to his feet.

He’s brought back to his room. Placed back into his restraints.

The visit plays back in his head over and over on a loop, cherry-picking at words and promises made by that man.

He will wait for him. He’s coming back to get him.

One day, he can leave.

One day, he can see the beach again.

The guards must sense it.

 _Hope_.

Hope is a dangerous thing. Resistance will follow, and they can’t have that.

A sharp pain pricks his arm unexpectedly with a soreness that’s sure to leave him feeling numb as the seconds go by.

So far from the coast and the barren desert. So close to actual ruin.

Slipping through the cracks of the needle, he sinks into a desolate plain of existence, holding on to the soft touch from the man with the sad eyes.

“Gil…” falls from his lips, and darkness consumes him.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to scream at me on tumblr @wonder-boy. Thanks for reading!


End file.
